Enroute back to the bedroom he passes the bathroom, which prompted the usual midnight reaction.

Later he justified his delay by saying he didn’t know how long it would take to dispatch the bat.

Di shouted, “Tom, where the heck are you?” from under her blanket-covered head. The rest of her demand was drowned out by the flushing.

Now, having been sufficiently warned and threatened by the bride, Tom enters the arena with both rackets.

With one swing he nailed the most-certainly disease infested, life-threatening, flying killer.

The now unconscious bat landed on the covers atop Di’s head.

She started screaming harder and shaking uncontrollably.

“Tom! Get this off of me NOW!” There was some profanity.

Tom used one racket to push the bat onto the other racket, squeezed them together and took the bat outside.

When he got back to bed, Di was sitting up, raving about his slowness, ineffectiveness, ancestry, lack of consideration and etc.

It was now Tom’s turn to pull the covers over his head. He fell asleep chuckling, having forgotten his root canal hurting.

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We’ve had bats get into our condo in Engadine. Our batman, Lowell, doesn’t want to seal the bats inside by closing holes, though he chases them out somehow.

He says all the bats will be gone as winter weather approaches. The bats fly back to copper or coal mines in the western Upper to hibernate.

Then Lowell will seal the holes, or he may hire Di to scare the bats to death with her screaming.

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Time to insert a little Will Rogers here. In the early 1930s he said, “You know the more you read and observe about the Politics thing, you got to admit that each party is worse then the other. The one that’s out always looks the best. My only solution would be to keep ‘em both out one term and hire my good friend Henry Ford to run the whole thing, and give him a commission on what he saves us.”

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Remember when the Playboy magazine was sold from behind counters? Didn’t want our youths exposed to such nakedness.